Page 23

“I’m always happy to see the three of you,” Scarlett says. “How was school, Caity-cat?”

We’ve missed the end of the workday rush, and we’re too early for the dinner rush. It’s a rare moment of peace in the diner, and Scarlett has time to hang around and catch up with the kids about their days for a little while. She hangs on every word and, though I’ve been with James all day, and already heard Caitlin’s daily recap, I love every moment of watching her give them her full attention.

But when she turns it on me, it damn near knocks me on my ass.

“How was your pitch this morning?” she asks, her eyes bright and warm.

“It was good, thanks. Just waiting for them to sign the contract,” I tell her.

“And James behaved?”

“Like an angel,” I confirm.

This was my first time doing a big pitch meeting from Clover Pines—and the first time doing one while looking after a four-year-old. James sat at the kitchen table, quietly flicking through a book while I sold a boardroom full of executives in London on an exclusive contract with our firm. It was a breeze.

My boss has no issue with me working remotely from Canada. If I’m needed in person, we have an office in Vancouver, and I can be there and back in a day. Perks of working for a global company, I guess.

A group comes in and Scarlett hurries off to take their orders while Caitlin and James eat their dinner and color in the kids’ menus with crayons.

It gives me a chance to sip my “Lucky Latte” (a regular maple latte with a clover-shaped cookie on the side) and watch Scarlett work. She really is in her element, joking with the customers with a familiarity that can only come from growing up in a town like this. These people have probably known her all her life, and I can tell they all love her.

Of course they do. She has an air about her that you can’t help but be drawn to. Warm and cozy, like the feeling of finally getting home after a long day. I came here under shitty circumstances, and things are significantly more complicated now than when all I was thinking about was my dad having an affair. I’m a jumbled mess of anger at my dad, worry for my mom, and guilt for leaving her and my siblings back home. Yet, somehow, being around Scarlett, being around the kids, feels easy. It feels right.

I wake up to a tiny hand gripping mine like a vise. The room is still dark, but I can just about make out a small figure in the shadows.

“James?”

He doesn’t answer, but he sniffles, and I sit up with a jolt, realizing he’s crying.

“Hey, buddy. Come here. What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

I hold out my arms and James nestles against me, his body shaking with the force of his cries.

“Did you have a bad dream?”

I do my best to piece together his watery reply, but it doesn’t make much sense. More than anything, he seems confused. I remember Scarlett mentioning once that he sleepwalks, and it would make sense for him to come to his bedroom if he was sleepwalking.

“Let’s go see your mom,” I say, lifting him as I stand up. James clings to me, his little cheek wet against my bare shoulder. Logically, I know he’s fine, but every sniffle, every cry, pulls the knots in my chest tighter, to the point that I feel like I’m fighting for air by the time I walk six feet across the hall to Scarlett’s room and knock on the door.

“’S open,” she replies sleepily.

It’s dark when I open the door, but James sniffles and her bedside lamp is on before I can even open my mouth.

“What’s wrong?”

“He’s okay,” I assure her. And myself. “I think he was sleepwalking and he just got confused.”

“Oh, Bug.” Scarlett pushes her blankets down and holds out her arms so I can hand him over. He settles almost instantly, and it brings a smile to my face, calming my racing heart. He just needed his mom. I know how it feels when the only thing that will help is a hug from my mom.

The sight of them together—Scarlett kissing the top of his head, James holding her tight—is the sweetest fucking thing, I swear. Scarlett wraps the blankets around him, which is just as well, because holy shit, it’s freezing in here.

“Is something wrong with your heating?” I ask, frowning at the vent. Nowhere else in the house is this cold.

“Huh? Oh, no. I just like it cold,” she replies, but it feels like she’s intentionally not making eye contact with me.

Granted, she’s wearing a sweater in bed, and I’m standing here in nothing but pajama pants, so that might be why she’s not cold. That also might be why she’s not looking at me.

“Can I get you anything?”